sins of the father
by ohtasha
Summary: never forgive, never forget. richard carlisle's death is merely the calm before the storm.
1. Chapter 1

Ironically, it was the newspapers that shared the story with the public, with exclusives on both the front and society pages. With headlines suitably apologetic for the late printing, they informed their readers that earlier that morning, on a perfectly crisp March day, Sir Richard Carlisle, newspaper magnate and husband of the late Linnet Scott, was found dead in his office with a bullet hole in his temple.

They continued, with the front pages noting that his secretary, Miss Ruth King, had found the dead man seated behind his desk with yesterday's reports spread in front of him and a revolver in one limp hand; and the society pages noting that rumours abounded as to the truth of Carlisle's relationship with the aforementioned Miss King. Both supposed that the bulk of Carlisle's fortune, along with that of his late wife, the heiress Miss Scott, would pass to the couple's only son, Ralph. The Daily Star helpfully reminded its female readers that Ralph was, in fact, still a bachelor and momentarily, attention was diverted from the signing of the Treaty of Dunkirk. That none of the reports appeared particularly sympathetic to the dead man's plight was, to an extent, to be expected; Carlisle was not a likeable man and the overworked, unpaid young journalists on his newsroom floors were hopeful of a much overdue raise.

Inspector Bank of Scotland Yard was not a man prone to sympathy, either. The only remarkable thing about his appearance was the conspicuous absence of a moustache, one that he had felt prudent to remove with the outbreak of war and had not since felt inclined to re-grow. Nothing about his stature indicated happiness or good news but Parker, the butler who admitted the Inspector to the Carlisle house in Eaton Square at the socially unacceptable time of 8 o'clock, was too well trained to remark upon this.

"If you'll wait in the library, Inspector Bank, I will inform Master Carlisle of your arrival," he intoned as he led the Inspector into an airy room furnished with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases crammed with books that the elder Carlisle had never read and the younger Carlisle intended to. As was his manner, Inspector Bank said nothing and Parker, even at this time of odd happenings, could not be prevailed upon to do anything more energetic than walk down to the servants' parlour to fetch Ralph's valet, that the young man might be roused, dressed and brought downstairs.

It took twenty minutes for Ralph to appear, in which time the Inspector had noted the absence of family portraits and photographs in the library, determined that no more than a third of the books had ever been opened and decided that the servants were uncommonly nosy. The door opened silently and, were the Inspector a young woman prone to a young Gregory Peck kind of face, he would likely have found some magical qualities in Ralph Carlisle's bleary-eyed appearance. As he was not, he started forward and shook Ralph's outstretched hand.

"Good morning, Inspector," Ralph said through a thick-throat that spoke to the Inspector more of drink than tiredness, "to what do I owe the pleasure?" He settled himself on one of the chaises, gestured that his guest should follow suit and rummaged around in a cabinet drawer before lighting a cigarette and inhaling deeply.

Inspector Bank, marginally uncomfortable sitting in a dead man's library with his hung-over son, got straight to the point. "It is my unfortunate responsibility to have to tell you, sir, that your father is dead. The Yard has placed me in charge of the investigation into his death." His tone was matter of fact and Bank waited for the emotional outburst, the raging denial that usually accompanied such statements.

And he kept waiting, for Ralph continued dragging on his cigarette and looking at the Inspector like a curio in a museum. "Oh," he said at last, and his tone was one of nonchalance and cavalier acceptance. "How?" Each inhalation came a little more regularly and in the pause between his question and the Inspector's answer, Ralph called Parker for a glass of water, which he held with a quivering hand.

"He was shot, sir, in his office," the Inspector replied and could have sworn he saw Parker's ears prick at the answer before the butler left the room and was out of sight. Another drag of the cigarette then-

"Suicide?"

"Why would it be suicide, sir?"

Ralph refilled his water glass; a little slopped over the top and pooled on the polished mahogany surface. "Oh, you said 'shot'," he said and waved the hand holding his smouldering cigarette in an airy manner, "it just seemed the natural conclusion."

"I see," Inspector Bank replied slowly and, indeed, he began to. "Well, we cannot distinguish between murder and suicide at present but I am keen to keep the possibilities open."

Ralph leapt up suddenly and only the Inspector's quick hand kept the glass of water from toppling and shattering on the floor. The younger man stubbed his cigarette out, tried and failed to light another before using his body weight to open a stiff window. He stood with his face in the morning sun, his grey eyes closed and blond hair blown gently by the breeze. "Well, suicide seems plausible," he explained. "After all, my mother died, what, five years ago? I don't think he ever quite recovered from that. No, he probably did. Fairly quickly, I would hazard."

Inspector Bank sat quite still. He needed no notepad to jot down details or sergeant to accompany him; his dull exterior quite rightly indicated a dull personality but hid a memory retention that was second to none. "Have you an idea of who might have wanted to harm your father," he probed and Ralph's shoulder blades flexed.

_No names, no pack drill._

"I doubt there's a shortage of people, Inspector," Ralph snorted, "you're probably aware that my father wasn't a likeable man and working in journalism doesn't lend itself to close acquaintances. Can't be sure what'll appear in tomorrow's edition, you see." He had, at last, managed to light another cigarette and his tone lightened with each exhalation.

"Were you close to your father?"

The laugh was derogatory and finally Ralph turned around to face Bank again. The nicotine had woken him up, made him relax; his face was softer and the smile on his lips was probably quite pleasing but was, in the circumstances, inappropriately genuine. "No. No, I wasn't. And before you ask, I should think that his money comes to me and I was out last night, didn't get in until early this morning. You rather woke me from a sobering sleep," Ralph joked but his gaze was shifty and cigarette trembled in thin fingers. Inspector Bank stood, his face impassive, and made for the door.

He stopped on the threshold and turned back to his host. "Army?"

"RAF," Ralph replied and all laughter disappeared, "Spitfires."

"I see," the Inspector replied and he did, more clearly than before. "Goodbye, sir." With that, he left, walking slowly down the street towards the police car at a measured pace, wearing an expression that betrayed none of his certainty that Ralph Carlisle was the man he was after. Means: undoubtedly. Motive: certainly. Opportunity: in all likelihood. A shame, really, when these war heroes fell so far from grace.

Ralph stood at the window for a little longer, the breeze cooling the sweat that trickled down the nape of his neck. Parker said something, he couldn't make out what, but he whirled around suddenly and told the butler that he would require the Daimler as quickly as possible.

He drove much too fast along the London roads, along country roads lined with hedgerows far removed from the pace of city life. He was as in control behind the wheel with a foot on the accelerator as he had been behind the controls of his plane, but the comfort he usually derived from driving had vanished and his palms were wet inside the leather driving gloves.

_Damn. Damn. Damn it all._


	2. Chapter 2

The war had been over for almost two years but Ralph doubted that he had calmed down from it yet. His body was still tightly wound like a coil, ready to spring at the first sign of action or the first bark of an order, and to that end he shifted his weight between his feet as he stood waiting for the front door to be answered, thrust his hands into his pockets then brought them out again, pushed his hair back from his eyes, only for the breeze to have its way with it. In 1947, he remained Ralph E. Carlisle, Squadron Leader and dogfighter extraordinaire, and he wasn't sure that he wanted that to change. His mind processed everything far too quickly and what was a blessing in wartime was a curse in peace.

Barrow, with his measured tread, finally opened the door and admitted him.

"Is Miss Branson here," Ralph asked quickly, peering around the hallway and far too concerned with what he was going to say to her to hand his coat and hat over. Barrow, as was his disposition, eyed him wearily.

"No, sir. His Lordship, Lady Mary, Mister Branson and Miss Branson are due to return from London before luncheon."

Ralph's face suddenly creased into a smile. "All right if I wait for them, then?" His words were loud and punctuated by poorly timed breaths; Barrow was of the humble opinion that the man ought to be turned from the house and set back on the way to London but he was clearly in no fit state to drive, and the Lord knew there'd been enough car accidents in the environs of Downton to be getting on with.

He harrumphed and made a little moue of distaste. "If you'll follow me, sir, I'll show you to the-" he started but Ralph breezed past him and into the library. Barrow was left standing in the hallway, the Daimler still parked haphazardly on the drive and an excited young man ensconced in the library. Once upon a time he would have sauntered back to the servants' hall, pulled O'Brien outside for a quick smoke and stood against a brick wall leering at the young man he had just encountered; he waited a few moments, enquired as to whether or not Master Carlisle would like a pot of tea and walked softly back to his study as Carson had taught him.

* * *

Ralph Carlisle was not alone in paying house visits that morning, although Inspector Robert Bank's destination was somewhat less glamorous and his mode of transportation less refined. Ruth King's apartment was, admittedly, well-furnished and in one of the more salubrious parts of North London but those qualities themselves provoked suspicion in the Inspector's mind.

"Your home is well-furnished," he remarked in a dry tone, sitting on a replica Louis XVI chaise that was somewhat out of keeping with both the location of the apartment and the time period. More in-keeping, he suspected, with a certain house in Eaton Square, but was not the sort of man to insinuate such things without a proper build-up.

Ruth King raised a carefully sculpted eyebrow. She was almost shockingly blonde; to the best of the Inspector's limited knowledge of the intimacies of female beauty regimes, the hair colour came from a bottle and was betrayed by the brown eyebrows that faced him.

"And what of it," she asked coolly, and indeed that seemed to be the most apt way of describing Ruth Victoria King, aged 28 years and 4 months. Her manner was calculated, her posture rigid and the cup of tea that rested on a table in front of the Inspector spoke of a woman not used to domesticity.

"I wasn't aware that secretaries earned particularly large wages," he replied and Ruth smiled tightly.

"I had a generous employer." Had. Now, that was interesting. Miss King had, of course, been the first to discover Sir Richard's demise and yet, like Ralph Carlisle, she displayed none of the usual outward signs of grief or mourning.

"So it would seem. And yet not everyone, I think, would share your assessment of Sir Richard?" The Inspector continued probing and continued to be disappointed by Ruth King's lack of an emotional response. She pursed her lips and withdrew a Marlboro from a monogrammed cigarette case.

"Perhaps," she said and her words were punctuated by long, delicate drags on the ivory tipped cigarette. "But journalism is not a profession that lends itself to overt displays of affection. It's a ruthless world, Inspector, and Sir Richard was the best at what he did for a reason."

"And was Sir Richard an… affectionate man, for want of a better word, in other aspects of his life?"

Ruth King fixed him with a steely gaze, surveying him through a haze of curling smoke. "I am well aware of what you are insinuating, Inspector, but my private life and that of Sir Richard remain just that. Private."

The Inspector's social antennae bristled and as delicately as a stocky man such as himself could move, he stood and navigated between the chaise and the table, headed towards the front door. "Be that as it may, Miss King," he stated with what he supposed was an avuncular smile as she opened the door, "I will have the truth."

Ruth stared him down. "I wish you well with your investigation, Inspector," she breezed and just avoided closing the door on his overcoat. She waited until she saw him walking down the street outside before fetching the single malt whisky that Richard had always preferred and pouring herself a large measure.

Inspector Bank stopped just by the Post Office, out of view of the apartment and smelled his overcoat. Glengoyne Single Malt whisky, just as he had found in Sir Richard's office. Redressing himself, he set off down the street and was suddenly presented with the thought that the case may not have been as open and shut as he had thought after leaving Eaton Square.

* * *

Ralph thought that he was reading a Dickens book but he couldn't be sure; he looked at the pages without reading the words and George Crawley's Earl Grey tea had had a strangely soporific effect on him. He was certain that this whole torrid affair was his father's fault, although blaming Richard Carlisle for the negative happenings of his life had become somewhat a hobby. If only he hadn't been such an intolerable, archaic, bitter, conniving, despicable bastard, everything could have been avoided. His death, almost certainly, as Ralph was convinced that some other journalist, probably from the Telegraph, had finally had enough and had done what Ralph wished he'd done long ago. His sitting here, in George's library reading George's books on his own as he whiled the hours away until the family returned; Richard was undoubtedly to blame for that, too, because it was both directly and indirectly his fault that he was sitting here at all. And, over a book that may or may not have been Dickens', a cup of tea that grew more tepid by the minute and a Limoges plate of divine lemon slices, the whole sorry saga played itself out in Ralph's mind.

School years; well, they had been entirely the product of a socially conscious father. Not that Harrow had been bad for him; quite the contrary, Ralph was almost certain that his distaste for his father's lifestyle and actions had been borne from exposure to the sort of people that his father wanted to emanate. Memories of cricket under summer skies and of tuck boxes at the start of new terms were glossy and rose-tinted, until the untimely death of Linnet Scott and summer holidays endured in his father's company when he couldn't escape to the estates of school friends interrupted the pleasantries and cast a dark pall over everything. Cambridge and History had been a beautiful year but war had beckoned and the first of many rows erupted over compulsory conscription and working one's way around the system. Ralph hadn't spoken to his father for the first two years of war.

Two years when Fate had intervened and propelled him towards George Crawley, who had in turn sent him in the direction of Miss Sybil Niamh Branson…

Wheels cruising over gravel and coming to a stop more suddenly than expected jerked Ralph back to the present day and the book on his lap went flying as he flew up and hurried to the door. Hardy, not Dickens, it turned out. He didn't wait for Barrow to announce his presence; rushing out into the hallway, he collided with George and rebounded with a grin, but grew serious as the Earl of Grantham asked what the devil he was doing at Downton.

"My father's dead," he said and no one looked half as sorry as they ought to.


	3. Chapter 3

Nobody really felt like eating, not at 3 o'clock, but it was an unspoken rule that no one left Mrs Mason's sandwiches uneaten and regardless, those who had been through a war were not inclined to leave food behind. George, Ralph and Sybbie conversed enough between them to prevent an oppressive silence settling over the dining room and with Tom's occasional interjections, Mary was free to eat lunch with her thoughts for company. Richard, dead. Not that she was sentimental; of all people, she was well acquainted with death, but Richard had been oddly stoic in life and the sort of man one imagined would exist forever. A Cicero quote came to mind, something to do with achieving immortality through memory, but studiously learned orations had long since faded and somehow she doubted that most people's memories of Richard would afford him the kind of immortality one would normally desire.

But all the same, his death was another thread cut loose, another old face she'd never look on again. Laughter bubbled up in her throat at the sudden memory of him wading through grass in heavy tweed aeons ago, of his mortified face and stilted actions during charades… Despite it all, despite the rough kisses, the debt she owed him, the acrimonious departure, he had been good to her. Wanted to buy her a house, keep her comfortable, give her a position in society. Had things been very different, she supposed that she might have been content with him- happy, even, but then if things had been so different it wouldn't have been a prospect she would have had to consider.

_He's dead, chin up and don't dwell._

Vaguely, she heard Sybbie ask what Ralph would do next, heard the boy reply that he wasn't sure and he might go back to London, only he'd wanted to tell them all and that he wasn't sure how one went about arranging a funeral. Heard George tell him not to be a fool and that he was to stay at Downton. Heard herself and shocked herself by promising to help Ralph with the arrangements.

_No one understands funerals like I do._

* * *

Inspector Bank's office was as meticulously kept as every other aspect of his life was. There was nothing extraneous, very little to provoke comment and beige was the overriding colour scheme. His desk, a sturdy oak affair, supported only lined paper, the fountain pen that was his only extravagance, blotting sheets and various encyclopaedia for bettering himself. The newspapers he had asked for and the paper contents of Sir Richard's office had been promptly delivered by a sergeant, and sat on the desk in an orderly pile of his own making. Bank was not a man comfortable with the whizzings and whirrings of the modern age; he had no typewriter, no complicated intercommunication system and a telephone was perched on the far end of his desk only at the insistence of his superior. A new officer dared to rifle around in Bank's drawers might have stumbled upon a yearly calendar and an autograph book containing the signatures of the cricketers the Inspector had idolised as a child, but the key he slipped into his trouser pocket whenever he exited the room prevented such a happening.

And so, he tore a sheet of crisp paper from the pad, aligned it neatly with the embossed leather writing pad and drew up four columns, in a perfectly legible hand:

_Name of individual of interest. Means. Motive. Opportunity._

Setting the plan aside, he began the arduous perusal of the newspapers, Carlisle's records and his crisp edition of Debrett's.

* * *

Parker had, in many senses, expected the telephone call from Yorkshire, to the extent that when it rang he knew the source without having to respond to the caller. Yes, sir, he would give the staff the day off. Yes, he would see that anything delivered to the house was taken care of. And will you be staying long in Yorkshire, sir? Yes, sir, he would have the luggage on the next train and he would be sure to pick up the new suits from Turnbull & Asser. Yes, sir, if the solicitor arrived he would direct him to Yorkshire. Very good, sir.

And Parker, as had been his wont in the trenches, followed his orders to the letter. The valet packed the trunks, complete with the pleated trousers Sinatra was making popular and the Brylcreem that had been the cause of many trademark Carlisle eruptions. It was Parker's job to give the dressing room a once over before the trunks left; it was Parker's job to tuck the monogrammed revolver, glimmering with residue, inside the eiderdown, ready to be cleaned once the staff had been dismissed. Housemaids, footman, hall boys and kitchen maids departed Eaton Square in a mumbling, grumbling crowd and Parker mulled over the events of the day.

* * *

Not an overly religious man, Bank was nevertheless convinced that some epiphany had occurred in the time it had taken him to read the Crawley entry in Debrett's, to research the Turkish Embassy and to gain an obscure vantage point into the lives of the elite through the society pages. Well, it all made more sense now; but at the same time, made things a great deal more complicated. At least now, though, the chart he had studiously drawn up hours ago could be partially completed:

_Ralph Edward Carlisle - likely in possession of a firearm (N.B distinguished aviator with Royal Air Force) - antagonistic relationship with Deceased, likely provoked by a) death of Mother and b) relationship with Miss Sybil Branson - unchecked access to Deceased's office, unable to account for whereabouts, witnesses unable to establish firm time line._

_Ruth Victoria King - access to firearm not unlikely - motive as yet unclear, Daily Mail indicates relationship between Deceased and aforementioned - unchecked access to Deceased's office, found body of Deceased._

_Mary Josephine Crawley - also likely to have access to a weapon - previous engagement to Deceased, involvement in Turkish and Bates Affairs - opportunity as yet unclear._

_George Matthew Crawley - in possession of a firearm (N.B record in Intelligence Corps) - motive as yet unclear, potentially linked by Mother's connection and R. Carlisle's relationship with Miss Sybil Branson - opportunity as yet unclear._

_Sybil Niamph Branson - likely to have access to weapon - motive potentially linked to relationship with R. Carlisle - opportunity as yet unclear._

Bank sat back in his wooden chair and absorbed the information in front of him. Downton Abbey, he suspected, beckoned.


End file.
